


Lost in the Echo

by aguantare



Series: Sin Fronteras [23]
Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Current Events, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-15
Updated: 2018-06-15
Packaged: 2019-05-23 18:23:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14939484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aguantare/pseuds/aguantare
Summary: Someone is screaming. James doesn't know why. Just knows that Salome's hand is in his and he can't let go.





	Lost in the Echo

**Author's Note:**

> The U.S. government is separating children from their parents at the U.S.-Mexico border as a policy, as a deterrent to "illegal" immigration. I don't have the words to explain the inhumanity of this, the intentional trauma being inflicted on children and parents alike. These families are fleeing some of the worst violence in the world, they are seeking protection by the only legal path available to them (and let's be clear, seeking humanitarian protection is NOT illegal), and the U.S. government is intentionally imposing the physical and emotional torture of violent family separation on them under the guise of "rule of law." 
> 
> We as a society should be ashamed that we have allowed this to happen. I can never adequately voice the anguish and pain of these families (if you can bear it, read [this NYT piece](https://www.nytimes.com/2018/06/07/us/children-immigration-borders-family-separation.html)), but I want people to understand, even if only through fic, the terrible human cost of what is happening at the border right now.
> 
> Disclaimer: don't know them, don't own them, don't sue me.

Someone is screaming. James doesn't know why. Just knows that Salome's hand is in his and he can't let go. He can't. He won't. Border Patrol agents swarm in his vision, green-shirted and big and burly, shouting at him, at Salome, incomprehensible words, English, Spanish he doesn't know. Hands grasp at him, prying at his fingers. And then those hands are wrapping around Salome's tiny wrist, yanking with horrifying force and James—James reacts. No one lays hands on his child like that. He swings, flails, punches and lashes at every flash of green in his vision. Someone lifts him up by the waist and he kicks, kicks until he connects with something and keeps kicking. He can't see Salome anymore and it only galvanizes him, makes him kick harder and harder, until there's a dull thud and--

The asphalt is hot and rough against his cheek. His head hurts. It's suddenly quiet, and James realizes, belatedly, that it was him who was screaming. 

-

Neymar stares up at the ceiling of the housing unit, hands behind his head as a makeshift pillow. Starts at the far left corner, counts the light fixtures across the row. 

...Seven, eight, nine--he wonders where Davi is. 

Bad, he thinks, closing his eyes for a second. Yesterday he made it to twelve. He opens his eyes, guides them back to the far left corner and starts over. 

...Twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen—did they give Davi water?

Better, he thinks, closing his eyes again. 

The third time, he's just made it to twenty when a minor commotion at the entrance interrupts his counting. He turns his head to look, and just by the way the line of men in orange Department Of Corrections jumpsuits are shuffling in, Neymar can tell they're new arrivals. And there's enough of them that he figures the bunk across from him won't be empty anymore. 

Sure enough, a few minutes later, one of the newcomers heaves himself up onto the bunk across from Neymar. There's an ugly bruise on his cheek. His face is blank and he doesn't meet anyone's eyes, just lays down and turns to face the wall. 

-

Breakfast call is at 7 AM the next morning. James stares at the food on his tray. His stomach roils, but he can't tell if it's from hunger or something else. He takes a bite of the gray-ish scrambled eggs. They're rubbery and tasteless. He wonders if this is what they're feeding Salome, wherever she is, and can't eat any more. 

They're returned to the housing unit at 8. He makes his way back to his bunk, climbs up and sets his back against the wall. He thinks of Salome again, a sick hitch of anxiety in his stomach as he wonders where she is and how scared she must be. His eyes heat suddenly. 

-

Neymar watches his new neighbor look down at his hands and blink rapidly. 

Count light fixtures, he wants to say. It helps. 

-

James isn't sure if this is day 3 or day 4. He ate breakfast today. It didn't do anything to ease the gnawing anxiety in his gut, but it passed the time. 

The housing unit is loud, awash in conversation, and yet James can't really hear any of it. Spanish and English and other languages bounce off the hard concrete walls and his eardrums, not even words, just sound. 

Nearby, underneath all the noise, someone clears their throat. James looks up—he's spent a lot of time looking down—and there's arms resting on the side of his bunk with a face peering over top of them. James doesn't recognize him, but then he doesn't recognize anyone here, doesn't know anyone here. He raises his eyebrows, a wordless question for a greeting. 

The other man holds out a photo, says something in a language that sort of sounds like Spanish, but isn't. When James doesn't respond, the other man repeats what he said, then pats his own chest with one hand and points to the photo. 

“My son,” he says, in accented English. 

“ _Não sei_ ,” he adds, and that's close enough to Spanish that James understands it. The man waves his hand in the air. 

“My son,” he repeats, “ _Não sei_ where. Where my son, _não sei_.”

After a second or two, James realizes what the other man is saying. 

“ _Yo tampoco, no sé_ ,” he replies, “ _No sé dónde está mi hija_ , my--” He cuts himself abruptly. Saying the words out loud, it just makes it that much more real. He swallows hard over the lump in his throat, looks wordlessly at the other man, wonders if they tore his son away from him like they did Salome. 

The other man reaches out, pats James' ankle with his hand, says something in his almost-Spanish. James doesn't understand the words, but takes the gentle gesture and comforting tone for what they are.

-

Days bleed together. Neymar makes it to twenty five light fixtures. His bunk-neighbor didn't eat yesterday, and he only ate lunch the day before. 

Strange, he thinks, how he can remember that, but he can't remember what Davi feels like in his arms. 

-

James tries to ask the guards about his daughter. They tell him he's never going to see her again.

“Probably wasn't even yours to begin with,” one of them adds.

James goes to one of the toilets, throws up what little there is in his stomach. He feels lightheaded as he walks back to his bunk, almost loses his balance hauling himself up. 

Awhile later, he's not sure how long exactly, he's pulled from a light doze by a hand tapping the side of his bunk. 

“¿ _Qué_?” he asks blearily. The face looking back at him slides into focus and it's the man with the bunk across from his, the one with the missing son. 

“ _Toma_ ,” the man says, holding out a bottle of water. 

James takes it, still not fully awake. 

It isn't until he's drunk half the bottle and feels better that he remembers bottles of water can only be bought from the commissary, where they cost nearly three times the market rate. 

-

“Salome.”

Neymar looks sideways at his companion. He's picking at his dinner, not really eating any of it. He catches Neymar's questioning look, sets his plastic fork down, tucks his hands in his lap. 

“ _Mi hija_ , her name. Salome.” 

Neymar nods his understanding.

“My son, he is Davi,” he replies. English feels so flat and expressionless on his tongue; he wishes he could speak Spanish. 

The other man nods. Picks up his fork again. Eats a bite of the mystery meat on his tray. 

-

“Da Silva, Neymar.” 

James watches the other man—Davi's father—climb down off his bunk and head for the door where several other inmates are already lined up and waiting. 

Is it strange, he wonders, that he didn't even know the other man's name until now. Or is it just natural, here in this jail, or prison, or whatever it is, where everything is suspended and stagnant and tenuous and ephemeral all at the same time.

He watches the other man step into the line, his head down. James wonders if he's going to be reunited with his daughter. He hopes so.

Knows, deep in his heart, that his hope is misplaced. 

-

Neymar's bunk is empty that night. The next morning, when they come back from breakfast, James can see that the sheets have been changed. 

He lays down on his bunk and stares up at the ceiling. Wonders how many light fixtures there are. 

-

The day after that, or maybe it's two days—James can't be sure—the door to the unit opens and a line of men in orange jumpsuits are led in. 

A few minutes later, one of the newcomers approaches and heaves himself up onto the bunk across from James'. His face is blank. He sets his hands in his lap, looks down at them, blinks rapidly. 

James clears his throat. The newcomer looks up at him. 

“ _Yo tampoco_ ,” James says, patting his own chest, over his heart, “ _Tampoco no sé dónde está mi hija_.”

The other man's throat bobs two, three times in rapid succession. He looks like he wants to say something, but can't. He looks back down again. 

James wishes he didn't know exactly how that feels.

**Author's Note:**

> Department of Corrections: Some immigrant detainees in the US are housed in county or state facilities (run by DOC), while others are held in private, for-profit facilities.  
>  _Não sei_ : I don't know  
>  _Yo tampoco, no sé_ : Me neither, I don't know  
>  _No sé dónde está mi hija_ : I don't know where my daughter is  
> ¿ _Qué_?: What?  
>  _Toma_ : Take (it/this)  
>  _Mi hija_ : My daughter


End file.
